


In Repair

by Enfilade



Series: Mend What is Broken [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Ambiguous Relationships, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Petting, M/M, Making Out, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mindfuck, Morning After, Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 05:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crew of the Lost Light are out on Hedonia for a night on the town, but Ratchet volunteers to stay behind on duty.  Resigned to a lonely and boring evening, he’s surprised when Drift shows up in the medbay with an unusual request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lonely Pilgrim

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been lurking around here a long time enjoying all the fics and decided the best way to thank all the contributors here is to share something of mine. 
> 
> Part one of three, set during Issue #13 of MTMTE. Temptation to make series...growing.
> 
> Mindfuck implied but not shown "on screen".
> 
> Please enjoy!

Chapter 1

_“I’m just a lonely pilgrim_  
 _I walk this world in wealth_  
 _I want to know if it’s you I don’t trust_  
 _‘Cause I damn sure don’t trust myself…”  
_

_\--_ Bruce Springsteen, “Brilliant Disguise”

  


_Volunteering for a duty shift when the Lost Light is in orbit around Hedonia will probably cement my reputation as a cranky old stick-in-the-mud_ , Ratchet thought as he rattled around the empty medbay looking for something to occupy his time.

He shouldn’t care so much, really. He’d done the right thing. 

Ambulon’s stickler-for-the-rules façade had crumbled away when he talked about how much he wanted to see Hedonia, what he wanted to do, where he wanted to go. Everyone knew Delphi wasn’t exactly a tourist destination, and Ambulon hadn’t had a lot of opportunity for fun when he’d been with the Decepticons. Ratchet figured that it would take a true rust-bastard to force Ambulon to stay behind with the ship when he wanted to see Hedonia so badly. 

It wouldn’t have been fair to just stick First Aid with the duty shift, either. Ratchet supposed he could have put it to a draw—let a randomizer decide—but really, what was the point? First Aid could cut loose and have fun tonight; Ratchet couldn’t, not even out on the tear for one wild night on Hedonia. Bludgeon had seen to that, long ago.

Still…

Ratchet was hooking hoses up to tanks, on the verge of indulging in some rare self-pity, when the med bay door slid open. Ratchet wasn’t sure who he expected to see—nobody should be injuring themselves this early in the evening—but it definitely wasn’t the sleek figure of a speedster with swords on his hips and a distinctive blade worn on his back.

“Drift,” Ratchet said with more than a small note of surprise in his voice. Ratchet wondered if Drift had lost a randomizer draw, or if Rodimus had just stuck him with the unwanted duty shift. _Rodimus_ , Ratchet thought, _had a bad habit of taking advantage_.

“Hey.” Drift seemed unusually subdued, Ratchet noted, as the swordsmech took a step into the room and the door closed behind him. “You busy?”

Ratchet snorted. Stupid question. “I’m always busy,” he grumbled. “For example, given that we’re in orbit around Hedonia, it’s only a matter of time before somebody gets overenergized, does something stupid, injures himself, and ends up here. I’m saving time and setting up my equipment for a system purge _now_.”

“Oh.” The speedster clutched his hands behind his back. “I won’t take up too much of your time.”

Truth be told, Ratchet didn’t absolutely have to be doing this work right now. It was more a matter of keeping his hands busy, filling the time while he waited, trying not to think about things he’d rather forget. 

But now he had a distraction. He eyed Drift carefully, wondering when he’d stopped considering the ex-Con a flaky idiot at best, a murderer in their midst at worst. “This another completely irrational theory about the Knights of Cybertron that you feel obligated to share with me?” Not that he would care if it was. Not that he would ever admit that debating with Drift was, at the very least, a way to fill the empty hours.

Drift shook his head. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, refusing to meet Ratchet’s gaze.

“Well, spit it out,” Ratchet growled.

Drift’s mouth set into a firm line and he jerked his head up, looking Ratchet in the eye. “I wanted to thank you for saving my life at Delphi.”

“That’s my job,” Ratchet said, wondering where this was going. He’d only done his duty, nothing more. It was Drift who’d dragged his rusting carcass up to the roof in time to rescue Ratchet. It was Drift who’d really gone above and beyond.

It was Ratchet who’d hoped that Drift hadn’t overheard when he told Pharma that everyone he gave a damn about was a million lightyears away from the Delphi Medical Facility.

“And Rodion,” Drift pressed. “And don’t you say that was your job. You were Chief Medical Officer. You had no business running a drop-in clinic in the Dead End in your off hours.”

“Surprised you remember that.” Ratchet scowled. “Surprised your brain wasn’t totally fried by those circuit boosters.”

Drift took a step forward. “I’m not ever forgetting that, Ratchet.” His hand reached up to scratch at the back of his head. “I, uh, I actually meant for a really long time to talk to you about it. You didn’t need to be so nice to me. I know I was a pain in the aft.”

“You still are a pain in the aft,” Ratchet muttered, but there was no malice in it.

“Yeah, so, I know we didn’t cross paths a lot….”

No. They wouldn’t have. Not with Drift fighting for the Decepticons for so long. Ratchet felt that old familiar chill in his chest when he thought about how much killing Drift had done, how many comrades he might have lost to the mech standing in front of him now.

“…but when I saw your name on the _Lost Light_ roster, I thought, _this is my chance_. Only it never seemed like the right time and then we ended up on Delphi and I just about died all over again and all I could think was I blew it, I left it too long.” 

He was almost babbling. Ratchet was familiar with patients being grateful, sometimes annoyingly so, but to see Drift behaving this way was unusual. The speedster was usually so reserved. 

Drift gave Ratchet a sheepish smile. “That’s why I was up on the roof, you know. Figuring I had just long enough to tell you…only then I saw Pharma’s guns and…”

Ratchet tried to hide his surprise. He’d wondered what had possessed Drift to come after him on Delphi. This thing he wanted to say had been important enough to drag him from what should have been his deathbed?

“I’m glad you came after me,” Ratchet said, hoping he’d only imagined the husky note in his voice. “Now tell me, what was so important.”

“Well, um, I wanted to say thank you, and…” Drift’s optics darted towards the floor.

Irritation flickered in Ratchet’s frame. He was not in the mood for games.

“…and I wanted to ask you something…”

Ratchet nodded impatiently, urging him to continue.

“I wanted to know if you would…remember Rodion? Circuit boosters? I couldn’t see anything, but you sat next to me and took my hand, told me I’d be okay, and you ran your other hand over my shoulder…”

Ratchet frowned. He did remember that, sort of, in the vague way he recalled his usual routines. Comforting the sick was a way of life for him.

“…and you told me I was special.”

That part Ratchet remembered clearly. Yes, he had the same pep talk for all his Dead End patients, but that last part he’d added just for Drift. He didn’t know why, not then and not now. All he knew was that Drift seemed to burn from within, as though his spark were too bright for his body, and the excess vitality shone through. 

_And wasn’t that a flaky, illogical thought._

“Okay,” Ratchet said, still not sure where this was going.

Drift inhaled through his vents and blurted out, “So-I-wondered-if-you’d-do-that-again.”

Ratchet couldn’t hide his look of surprise. Drift saw it, and flinched, clearly agitated. 

It was a strange request, but it seemed harmless enough. It obviously meant something to Drift or he wouldn’t be acting this way. Ratchet lifted his right hand, placed it on Drift’s forearm, gently stroked. “Like this?”

“Yeah.” 

Drift folded around him, laying his head on Ratchet’s shoulder and dimming his optics. Ratchet placed his left hand on the white speedster’s lower back, feeling a bit awkward, but moments later he felt the gentle vibrations from Drift’s chassis as his engines thrummed happily. _Such a simple thing_ , Ratchet thought as his fingers traced sleek white curves. And with all the pleasures that Hedonia had to offer, this was what Drift wanted tonight?

Ratchet looked down at the speedster’s sleek white curves, so glossy and aerodynamic, gleaming in the lights of the med bay. He followed Drift’s clean lines with his hands and his thoughts began straying into decidedly dirty territory. Ratchet gritted his jaw to clear the images from his mind – that part of his life was over, Bludgeon had seen to that. He had no right to think about Drift that way, and at any rate, Drift could easily find himself a better partner than a worn-out old medic with a boxy alt mode and someone else’s….

Ratchet’s hands stilled. “You…aren’t bothered that…” He moved his hands, unable to speak the words—the hands weren’t really his, were they?

“I know that’s you.”

“You’re so sure.” Except Drift did sound sure.

“I think I could tell it was you anywhere.”

Some looney spiritualism, or had Drift thought about that memory often enough to fix it in his mind?

“Okay.” Ratchet leaned forward, whispered in Drift’s audio. It was though Ratchet felt forced to confirm that Drift wasn’t making a mistake by being here. “And you’re not going out tonight?” 

“Not while you’re doing that.”

Ratchet felt a little pleased and hated himself for it. He also felt concerned. 

He didn’t tryst with other mechs. Not since the…the incident. It was more than doctor/patient boundaries, more than the difficulty of losing so many friends to the war. It was something he’d never spoken of, not even to Rung, not when he could let the other Autobots presume that celibacy was simply his way. Perhaps Drift didn’t know that. Or, knowing, decided to flout the rule.

“You’re not going to get my plating off,” Ratchet growled in Drift’s audio, “so if that’s your game, you can get out.”

Drift’s optics brightened into an expression of shocked innocence. He wordlessly shook his head no. His headfin thumped gently against Ratchet’s chest.

Ratchet gritted his jaw – he had to scare Drift off before this went too far. “I’m not taking yours off either.” 

“Okay.”

Drift was far too obedient. Ratchet didn’t entirely trust him. He just couldn’t figure what the other mech was getting out of this and…

Drift’s engine purred. Ratchet’s hands sought out the sensitive points on the other mech’s back where just a little pressure applied at the proper spot could impact the nodes below and send sensation racing through the white speedster’s neural net. Drift seemed to melt against him, his hands resting lightly on Ratchet’s hips, completely compliant, lost in the moment. It was…not unpleasant, Ratchet realized. It had been a long time since he had been this close to another mech. He might choose not to interface, but that didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate the closeness, the warmth of another. 

Perhaps Drift was looking for the same.

All in all, Ratchet thought as his hands moved over Drift’s back, seeking all the sensitive places, this wasn’t so bad. It was a marked improvement over pacing the med bay and waiting for the evening’s casualties. 

His fingers located a tender spot; he knew it from the way Drift sighed and smiled. Ratchet bowed his head to concentrate on it when suddenly he felt a miserable crick starting in his neck. As if in sympathy, his back sent out a nasty twinge that raced through his neural net. 

Serves him right for pushing himself so hard for so long.

Reluctantly, he released Drift and hammered on his neck with the heel of his hand until the crick went away. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m getting stiff and I’ve been on my feet all day.”

Drift withdrew, leaving Ratchet suddenly chilled where the white mech’s warmth had been. “Yeah,” he said, “guess I should get out of your way.”

It struck Ratchet that he really didn’t want Drift to go. Even if he didn’t understand the speedster’s motivations; even if he was just the tiniest bit edgy about being alone in the med bay with someone with a known propensity for violence under his calm façade. Even if he might be more of a threat to Drift than Drift was to him. “If you want to,” Ratchet said.

Drift glared at him. No, apparently he didn’t want to.

“Or you can come with me,” the medic continued as he turned his back, held his breath and hoped Drift would follow him.

One step. Two. Then the soft sound of the swordsmech trailing after him.


	2. Hint of the Century

_Consider this, the hint of the century_   
_Consider this, the slip_   
_That brought me to my knees_

\--R.E.M., “Losing My Religion”

  


Ratchet walked to the rear of the medbay, into an alcove typically occupied by patients in long-term recovery. There was no one here now; everyone was either well enough to be out of the medbay tonight, or ill enough to be in stasis. Ratchet ducked around a curtained divider and opened the door to his quarters in the back.

The hab suite had a second door that opened onto the hall; a door that was rarely used. Ratchet suspected that said something about a poor work/life balance and chose to ignore it. His job was his life, now. 

Ratchet turned off the glaring overhead lights—leftovers from the medbay—and activated a small corner lamp instead. Maybe the place would look better in low light. ….okay, so it really didn’t. 

Ratchet could only imagine what Drift would think of his cluttered workstation and boxes of unsorted medical gear and all the other overflow from the medbay that had somehow ended up here. He hadn’t realized there was so _much_ of it. This didn’t look like personal quarters; it looked as though he lived in the medbay’s storage closet.

If he cleaned it out, the room would be empty. Somehow that didn’t strike Ratchet as an improvement. 

Ratchet felt a creak in his spine as he hoisted himself up on his berth; his joints pulled as he settled himself on his back. He felt self-conscious, as though Drift’s gaze pressed down on him like a weight, and he wondered what Drift might do next. He both feared and hoped the other mech might pounce him; when he didn’t, Ratchet laced his fingers behind his head—that felt so good on his neck—and dared a glance at his companion.

Drift stood there in the doorway, watching silently, uncertain.

“Get up here, then,” Ratchet said, “and get rid of the sword.” He half expected Drift to protest, to spew some nonsense about the blade being too sacred to remove.

Drift stepped inside, closed the door, and lay his Great Sword against the wall. Hesitating, Drift added his two hip blades in their scabbards and then moved to Ratchet’s side. He moved with smooth, fluid grace, but as he rested his shoulder on the berth next to Ratchet, his gaze caught Ratchet’s optics, as though seeking approval.

Ratchet had not thought this through. He could lie on his side and face Drift, but that would pin one of his arms under his body; and he was comfortable the way he was. He didn’t need to inconvenience himself for…for whatever Drift was after. _If the speedster wanted this, he could do all the bloody work_ , Ratchet thought, and patted his chest. “Right here.”

Drift rose to hands and knees, straddled Ratchet’s hips and lay his chest down in the area indicated. His body settled against Ratchet’s, and the medic felt his breath stop in his intakes for no discernible reason. Drift captured Ratchet’s wrist and returned his hand to the speedster’s waist. Ratchet let his other hand slide up Drift’s spinal strut.

Drift’s response was a low-in-the-voxcoder groan. He moved nearer, fitting his angles around Ratchet’s with astonishing closeness. Ratchet released Drift’s waist and placed his second hand high on the speedster’s back. Drift dimmed his optics, and it occurred to Ratchet that the swordsman looked strangely vulnerable this way. 

Ratchet wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do—what Drift wanted, or what he hoped to get from this encounter. Out of familiarity he began the secondary chassis survey, dancing his fingers systematically across Drift’s back, seeking out any injury or weakness. He found nothing—of course not, Drift was in perfect repair—but the speedster’s fans came on again, and slowly increased their speed.

“Ratchet,” Drift murmured. “If you just keep doing that…I’ll do…” His voice hitched as he exhaled a long, blissful sigh. “…Do whatever you want.”

The offer was both concerning and darkly exciting. Ratchet couldn’t face those implications now.

In fact, perhaps it would be easier not to think at all. Ratchet dimmed his optics and let himself relax as he continued to lazily activate all Drift’s sensory nodes that he could reach. Every once in a while Drift would move, just a little, just enough to sensitize Ratchet’s plates and remind him all over again that he had his cheeky white speedster stretched out on top of him, whimpering at his command. Ratchet dimmed his optics and savoured the warmth that grew between them, the whisper of air from Drift’s vents and the purr of his fans that slowly crescendoed from a gentle hum to a roar…

Startled, Ratchet pulled his hands away. Drift was definitely running hot, and when Ratchet stopped, Drift jerked as though in pain. He lifted his head and emitted a desperate whimper that was also a question. 

“We need to take this easy,” Ratchet gritted, and yes, his voice was hoarse. A bad sign. A very, very bad sign. “If I keep that up I’ll bring you to overload right here.”

Drift wrinkled his nose. “But I still have my armour on,” he whispered, clearly bewildered. 

_As if that were any defence._ Ratchet snorted. “I’m a medical professional. You think I don’t know how to manipulate your neural net if I took a mind to?”

Apparently Drift hadn’t been reading any medical journals, because his optics widened in surprise, then narrowed skeptically. Ratchet could hardly believe it—the reports coming out of Swerve’s heavily implied that if it could be done between two mechs in a berth, Drift had tried it. Sometimes more than two mechs, in fact. The fact that Drift didn’t seem to realize what a properly applied caress could do went beyond appealing to downright intoxicating. 

“Just by touching?”

Ratchet nodded.

Drift dimmed his optics. “Okay.”

Too submissive. Too easy. Warning lights went off in Ratchet’s brain, one set for Drift acting so strangely and one set for the dark stirrings in his spark that told him there was no reason not to take advantage of an offer freely made.

“You don’t think I can.” Ratchet realized he was provoking Drift and didn’t care.

“Prove it,” the swordsmech murmured.

Dark embers leapt into a flame. Drift had asked, and now he would be given. No harm in that. This was just touching, after all. Juvenile, really. Harmless.

Ratchet placed his hands carefully, one between Drift’s shoulder spans, the other in the small of his back above his hip armour, and very delicately ran a finger over each of two nerve nodes. Oh, and he knew where they all were, too, thanks to his thorough inspections earlier.

_Doubt me, will he._

_He’s in for quite the surprise._

Ratchet didn’t like these thoughts—they were Bludgeon’s doing, Bludgeon’s tinkering at work, not the sort of thing he would ever have thought about with a lover before his capture—but somehow Drift didn’t seem to mind what Ratchet was doing. Seemed, even, to like it. Even now he was quivering in anticipating of being proven wrong.

Ratchet was happy to oblige.

Slow, building pressure here—a touch there—a little attention on this node under the armour… Drift made an inquisitive sound as his hands clenched against Ratchet’s sides. Ratchet smiled smugly as he zeroed in on the base of the swordsmech’s spinal strut. Drift’s frame shuddered as a quick crackle of energy rose from his spark and twisted its way through his body. It made Ratchet’s plates tingle with its passing, and he felt his own fans speed up in anticipation of what would happen next.

“What do you know,” Drift murmured as the charge faded away, “yes, you can.”

Ratchet grinned, because Drift had no idea. “Grab my shoulders.”

“Mmm?” Drift seemed sleepy, so relaxed, and he wasn’t about to stay that way.

“I said, grab my shoulders and hang on,” Ratchet repeated, and this time he made it an order. He watched as Drift automatically obeyed; saw the surprise in his optics when he realized that he’d responded instinctively to a command, and the question as to why the command was necessary.

Ratchet’s smile widened as he showed Drift exactly why.

That prior little overload had sensitized the swordsmech’s neural net, leaving it hyper-reactive to the next touch. A touch of a medic’s hands on very specific places, already stimulated, now about to be driven to the peak. Each spot on its own was an erogenous zone; all of them together, well, the medical literature made it fairly explicit that activating all nodes in concert would send a jolt of arousal so strong that it would snap Drift from post-charge contentment to damned near redline in an instant.

Ratchet watched as Drift raised an eyebrow ridge and shifted his weight, as if sensing the oncoming storm and attempting to see what might be causing it; then the sensation hit, flaring his optics with blue light and arching his back clean off Ratchet’s chest. His mouth dropped open in disbelief. Ratchet could see, in the shiny chrome plating of Drift’s helmet, his own face reflected back at him, wearing a devil’s grin.

Drift’s air intakes gaped, sucking in breath that could never be sufficient. His fans jumped from a purr to a scream in the stroke of a piston. Ratchet moved his hands like a master on an instrument and Drift spasmed, throwing back his shoulders in blind quest for more pleasure. Ratchet was happy to oblige him. Poor Drift—he was trapped on that thin line between pleasure and pain, not sure what to do to receive more.

Ratchet was not about to be cruel. He knew full well that if he stopped now, the excess charge would be physically painful. He wouldn’t do that. But oh, the knowledge that he _could_ stoked those dark flames inside him, to realize that he had Drift more or less at his mercy.

And so he played it out, never quite satisfying Drift, but never releasing him either. Drift shivered, sucked air into his intakes. Ratchet dug in his fingertips, flicking them back and forth over sensitive junctions. Drift clawed at the medic’s shoulders, as though scrabbling to find a guarantee of more. Ratchet stroked him instead, causing Drift to keen low in his throat out of pure need. Ratchet tracked his spine and sought out a new place, something that made Drift’s whole body tremble violently with desire just barely restrained.

Drift snapped his head down to look Ratchet optic-to-optic. The white speedster’s optics flared with brilliant blue light. _Please_ , he mouthed, too wound up to speak.

Ratchet took firm hold of Drift with one hand and let the other bring the white mech to the peak he so craved.

Drift’s overcharge flooded the medbay with crackling light. Ratchet felt the current race up his arm, judder through his shoulder joint with a throb like a beating fuel pump, race through his internals, stopping his own processes for a split second before the shock passed harmlessly through the frame of the berth and out into the absorbers embedded in the floor. 

Drift collapsed onto Ratchet’s chest. His air intakes strained; Ratchet could feel the breeze pass over his body as Drift sucked in air. Ratchet realized, distantly, that his own fans were kicking out more than their usual heat; the bunk was warm under his shoulders in a way that soothed his aching servos. Drift quivered, as though the cool air chilled his overheated chassis. Ratchet wrapped an arm over him, lending some warmth.

Silence, and Drift was so very still, face buried in Ratchet’s neck. Ratchet couldn’t see Drift’s expression under the twin fins of his helm. “We okay?” Ratchet asked, feeling his throat constrict with concern. He’d let that—whatever that had been, it had gotten entirely out of hand.

Drift lifted his head drank in a deep breath. “Better than okay,” he answered with a lazy grin. His fingers traced slow circles on Ratchet’s chest in a way that made Ratchet wonder what was going on in the speedster’s mind. “Is this a good time to ask you what you want?”

Ratchet eyed him suspiciously. Drift read the question in his expression and elaborated. “I said if you’d do that for me, I’d do whatever you want.”

“When you say _whatever I want_ , do you mean you’re volunteering to clean the medbay, or do you mean…” There was no way Ratchet could say out loud the things he was imagining in his head; he didn’t even want to admit to himself that he was becoming increasingly intrigued by the thought that those acts had even the smallest chance of becoming reality. He hated himself for even entertaining the notions. Hadn’t he risked enough tonight already?

Drift looked him square in the optics and said firmly, “I mean _whatever you want_.” There was no quaver in his voice.

But there was something about the hardness in his expression that finally gave Ratchet the will to push the errant thoughts aside. He reached out and touched Drift’s cheek gently. “This shouldn’t be a transaction, Drift,” he murmured.

Drift looked at him suspiciously. Ratchet was now convinced he was doing the right thing, even though he had no doubt Drift would do whatever he was told. There was something about the idea of obligation that didn’t sit well with him.

“So you’re putting up with me why, then?” Drift asked.

Ratchet folded his arm around the white swordsmech. “Consider it a gift.”

Drift frowned. Then he nestled closer. He laid his head on Ratchet’s shoulder, still frowning, evidently deep in thought.

“There is one thing I’d like to know,” Ratchet said slowly.

Instantly that suspicious look was back on Drift’s face, as though to say _I knew this was coming. I knew you’d take your gift back as soon as you thought of something you wanted_.

“And no,” Ratchet said, “this isn’t something you’re obligated to answer. I said a gift and I meant it. But if you feel like telling me, I’d dearly love to know why you’ve got a night off on Hedonia and you’re spending it down here.”

Drift was silent so long that Ratchet was sure he wasn’t going to answer. Then, abruptly, he spoke. “Might as well tell you since you can probably already guess. Hedonia might not particularly like Cybertronians but that doesn’t mean they don’t get good money catering to us. Particularly stuff that’s illegal back home. Meaning the planet’s rotten with Syk and circuit boosters and Primus only knows what else, and I don’t trust myself alone with it.” He dimmed his optics, as though he couldn’t face seeing Ratchet’s reaction to his words. “I mean, I feel my systems craving Syk every morning of my life and probably always will, and I’m okay most of the time, but that’s because there isn’t any around to be had, and I can make myself not think about it. If it was right there in front of me…I want to say I’d say no, but the truth is, I don’t know if I could, and I’m not in a hurry to find out. Better to just stay away from it.”

Yes. Ratchet should have thought of that. Strange how let down he felt; that this was just a night’s entertainment. 

_And wouldn’t you be in trouble if it wasn’t._ Ratchet felt his old irritation when the voice of logic chimed in. 

“And,” Drift added, “you’re always the one to save me.”

Ratchet had no answer to that.

“Hey,” Drift said abruptly. He lifted his head, brightened his optics. “You, ah, you think you could show me how you did that?”

“Did what?”

“You know, _that_.” Drift ran his hand over Ratchet’s shoulder.

Oh.

“You’re not a medic,” Ratchet huffed.

Drift sat up. “No, but I’m a fast learner.” He grinned, lopsided. “Try me.”

“Let me up, then.”

Drift moved back, far enough for Ratchet to sit up. The medic Drift speculatively. It wasn’t as though he could just point to the spots on his own back and tell Drift to touch them. “Sit here and face me,” Ratchet said, patting his lap, and felt dirty even as he said the words.

Drift didn’t hesitate in the slightest, straddling Ratchet’s lap, holding the medic’s shoulders for balance as he assumed the requested position. Ratchet felt Drift’s chest armour against his and had to put his fans on again; even on low, he was sure Drift heard. The speedster didn’t react as far as Ratchet could tell. Drift kept his optics locked on Ratchet’s, as if to make sure what he was doing was okay.

 _Whether he was doing it right_ , that unwanted urge corrected. _Obedient…to you…_

Ratchet ignored it. This was instruction, medical instruction, that was all. He wrapped his hand over Drift’s shoulder and sought out the first of those sensitive spots. “Here.”

Drift mirrored Ratchet’s motion. His fingers found the same general area, but Ratchet’s back was a different shape. “No, up under the…yes, and to the left, right…”

Ratchet’s jaw snapped shut as Drift found the spot.

The speedster’s optics brightened as he lazily circled the place.

“Other hand,” Ratchet rasped, “base of the spine, like…”

His fans hitched up their speed.

Drift might not be a doctor, but he definitely knew how to touch a mech and get a reaction. Any lack of surety regarding the anatomy was more than compensated by exquisite technique that started out so gentle, applied pressure just so, retreated enough to leave Ratchet wanting and then slowly began feeding the sensation he craved back to him. 

Ratchet’s hands moved of their own volition, indicating the next places on Drift’s back just before the spots on his own became too acclimated. Drift followed suit, and Ratchet realized he was in trouble. Drift was a much faster learner than Ratchet had given him credit for, with skills he hadn’t bargained on, being used on a poor old medic who hadn’t overcharged at the hands of another for going on four million years.

“Drift,” Ratchet choked. He clutched the speedster across the back, giving up teaching entirely, just holding on now.

“Happy?” Drift purred. His hands slid back to the first spots and made Ratchet gasp. 

_Yes_. Yes, he was happy, in a way he’d almost forgot possible. He tried to force the words from his vocal processor, failed, and nodded instead.

 _Drift_ , Ratchet realized distantly, _had an angel’s smile_. Ratchet didn’t believe in angels, but he could see where the concept had originated. Generosity like this could easily be mistaken for a miracle.

So he clutched Drift’s armour and dimmed his optics, laying his head on the other mech’s shoulder. His world seemed to dissolve into a galaxy of pleasure and need; as though each moment was both the best in his memory and still not quite enough. His lips moved against Drift’s neck as he tried, one last time, to be certain.

“You don’t….have to…”

“No,” Drift murmured. “It’s a gift.”

The words sank in and Ratchet reached that instant where there was nothing more to crave, when all he felt was all he could want and all there could ever be. His back arched, lifting his head off Drift’s shoulder, and the speedster caught him, completing him, bringing him down slowly. He had a vague memory of tumbling backwards, bearing Drift down with him, but the sheer overwhelming power of the overload after so many years of solitude kept him falling, down and down into dream.


	3. Waking Up In Vegas

_Shut up and put your money where your mouth is  
That's what you get for waking up in Vegas_

\--Katy Perry, Waking Up in Vegas

*

_Deedle-deedle-dee._

Ratchet groaned.

_Deedle-deedle-dee. Deedle-deedle-dee._

He’d been a medic more than long enough to know what a pager sounded like. Even in a recharge this deep—and Ratchet’s mind was moving very slowly indeed—he knew he was being summoned to do his duty. He sent his consciousness spiraling upwards into light, bound for the source of the sound.

The next sensation he encountered was warmth; the body of another mech lying atop his. Delightful. He wanted to savour it, but the pager deedled again, reminding him that someone in this berth was required in the med bay, stat.

Ratchet found his voxcoder and pushed words out of it. “Pharma? That your pager or mine?”

It was the biggest problem with having another doctor for a significant other. Neither of them got a lot of sleep, given that they both woke up every time each other’s pager went off.

“Yours, Ratch.”

Except the voice wasn’t Pharma’s. Instead of a cultured, velvety Vosian accent, this speaker’s voice was working class—almost Tarnian—but with something exotic gracing it, enhancing the tones of the words.

Ratchet awoke enough to get his optics to light.

His berthmate was looking down at him, leaning on his arms, though his lower body remained entangled with Ratchet’s. Ratchet peered up at him, thinking he recognized the poor leaker Orion Pax had brought to his clinic in Rodian.

Which made no sense. Ratchet didn’t take patients to his berth. Particularly not patients so vulnerable as that lost spark—the special one. It would be an abuse of power even to accept an offer freely made from someone like that.

And then a dark rush at the very idea nibbled at his spark, and memory cascaded through his mind, four million years’ worth of memory, his last fight with Pharma, the end of their relationship and storming out of the Deltaran Medical Facility all alone; the ambush, waking up in the arena in the Rust Spot, and Bludgeon’s hideous grin as he told Ratchet just what he had in mind for him; Orion Pax and Alpha Trion riding to the rescue, but nobody able to rescue Ratchet from damage already done, and a hard decision: to live his life alone rather than risk the outcomes Bludgeon had described. A decision he had kept until…Until Hedonia, and…

“Ratch,” Drift said insistently, as he slid off Ratchet…reluctantly, the medic thought. “Ratch, you have to go.”

_Deedle-deedle-dee._

Right. The pager.

Slag, had he said Pharma’s name out loud?

_Deedle-deedle-dee._

Ratchet sat up and grabbed for it, checked the originator, activated the commlink. “Ratchet here.”

“Ratchet,” came a voice that the Chief Medical Officer recognized. 

“What is it, Hound?”

“Atomizer got drunk and shot Sunstreaker in the arse with an arrow.”

Ratchet groaned. “Estimated time of arrival?”

“Should be there in five minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Ratchet broke the comm link as he climbed out of his berth. He turned around, looked at Drift and realized he had no idea what to say.

Drift shrugged. “Go save the day, Ratch. I’ll be around.”

And Ratchet knew he had to, but before he did, he opened a drawer and pulled out a heating tarp. Drift watched him, curious, and let out only a little squeak as Ratchet wrapped the tarp around his shoulders, tucking him in, keeping him warm.

And then Ratchet turned on his heel and broke into a run, heading for the medbay and his duty, leaving Drift behind in the chief medical officer’s quarters.

*

Extracting the arrow from Sunstreaker’s arse took less than half the time required to fix Atomizer’s visor and face after Sunstreaker had punched him, and the whole time, Sunstreaker’s weird pet Insecticon had been shuffling around the medbay getting into things. Ratchet was more than happy to send all three of them their separate ways once the repairs were completed. He was tired…

…And doing his best not to overheat or choke when he thought about how fatigue was a very common side effect of an overload _that strong._

This whole night was surreal, and part of Ratchet almost wanted to stay in the med bay. It would be better than opening his quarters and finding his berth empty. Sadly, Ratchet had to rest up for the next round of stupid injuries. He palmed the access panel on his hab suite’s hatch and stepped inside.

A shrouded figure on his berth twitched, reached over the side of the bed, and rolled to its knees in the middle of the berth, clutching a sword in a defensive pose across its body.

Ratchet took a step back. “Drift?” he said.

Drift lowered the sword. “Hey, Ratch.” He stared down at the weapon. “Um.” Drift reached over the edge of the berth and dropped the sword, which fell to the floor with a clatter. 

“Can I go to sleep now, or will I get stabbed?” The sarcastic words were out of Ratchet’s mouth before he could think better of them. That wasn’t how he wanted to tell Drift that he was glad the swordsmech had stayed.

“I’m gonna have to memorize your gait,” Drift said, “so I’ll know it’s you next time.”

_Next time_. Ratchet felt his spark warm.

_There shouldn’t be a next time_ , logic chided him, but he shoved it away. He was on Hedonia; just the place for poorly considered decisions. Ratchet walked over to his bunk, and Drift offered him half the tarp. 

Ratchet didn’t usually sleep with a covering, but not much about tonight had been typical. Ratchet accepted the tarp, lying on his side with the cover flipped over his shoulder. He found himself snuggled up against Drift, the speedster’s back to his chest, and Ratchet draped an arm over Drift’s waist. The swordsmech’s engines purred.

_Cozy, and rather nice,_ Ratchet thought, and he had a moment to regret he couldn’t stay awake longer to savour it, before exhaustion claimed him again.

*

_Deedle-deedle-dee._

Ratchet woke up more easily this time. 

_Hedonia. Drift._

Drift was still here, beside him this time, rolling onto his back and flickering his optics sleepily.

Ratchet sat up and grabbed his pager again. “Ratchet here.”

“Ambulon got drunk and did a faceplant into a roulette wheel.”

Ratchet stared at the commlink. “First Aid, is that you?”

“Yes…”

_Deal with it yourself_ , Ratchet thought as he looked down at Drift. He wanted to throw the commlink across the room, pull the tarp over himself and Drift, and…and… 

He could not seriously be considering a repeat performance. Perhaps with their armour off.

_Duty_ , Ratchet chided himself.

“Are you drunk?” Ratchet asked reluctantly.

A long pause.

“Yes…”

Ratchet deactivated the comm link, swore, activated it again. “Estimated time of…”

“Ten minutes out,” First Aid said, knowing the question before Ratchet finished asking it. 

“Meet me in…you know the drill, Ratchet out.”

Drift was still watching him.

“This is the life of a medic, kid,” Ratchet snapped as he climbed out of the berth. “Better get used to it.”

He was out the door before he realized what he’d said. What, exactly, was he going to do if Drift _intended_ to “get used to it?”

*

Ratchet came limping back to his room, muttering about medics who ought to know better. The injury didn’t seem to have fazed Ambulon much; he was still rambling on about the best night of his life. Ratchet wondered if Ambulon would finally stop being such a gearstick, or if he’d be twice as bad when he woke up with the progenitor of all headaches.

Ratchet slammed open the door to his hab suite, and this time, announced himself. “It’s me, Ratchet.”

But Drift seemed to have kept his word; he’d recognized Ratchet’s footsteps, because he was still mostly asleep, wrapped up in the tarp like a cocoon, his engines purring softly. Ratchet came and stood over him in the dimly lit room.

Drift’s optics flickered; then he lifted a corner of the tarp. Ratchet took it. Drift opened his arms, smiling sleepily, sweetly.

And Ratchet fell into them, folding his own arm over Drift, crushing the white speedster against his chest. Drift’s engines hummed with delight; his own added a deeper, throaty growl. 

Drift, only partly awake, was asleep again quickly. _So trusting_ , Ratchet thought. Ratchet himself stayed awake longer this time, watching the tarp flutter when Drift exhaled, thinking of how quickly he could come to like this arrangement, and how much he had to lose if Bludgeon hadn’t been bluffing.

*

DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE.

Ratchet threw back the tarp, sat up, grabbed the pager, pressed the commlink. “Ratchet here,” he growled, ready to chew metal and spit out nails, when he realized it wasn’t his link that was active.

Drift groaned. “Slag, it’s mine,” he muttered, as he fished around over the lip of the bed and picked a pager up off the floor. “Drift here.” 

Ratchet tried not to listen as he returned his pager to the end table, but it wasn’t easy, not when he was fighting an urge to crush Drift’s pager. Right before informing the bot at the other end that Drift was going to be indisposed for the foreseeable future.

“What? Can’t this wait till morning?” Drift asked.

Ratchet’s optics fell on his chronometer. He felt the fuel in his tank turn to ice.

It was early. Very, very early. But it _was_ technically morning.

Reluctantly, he reached out a finger, poked Drift, and at the speedster’s inquisitive look, pointed to the chronometer. Drift’s expression immediately fell. Ratchet wondered if he looked as unhappy as Drift did. He certainly felt it.

Morning, and he could hear the _Lost Light’s_ star drive spinning up. The ship was leaving Hedonia.

Time to go back to business as usual.

_And just in time_ , Ratchet’s voice of reason said as it struggled to contain his angry and possessive desire. _Bludgeon wired you up like a bomb waiting to go off. You had a nice night; now say goodbye._

Except he didn’t want to say goodbye. He wanted to ask Drift if he’d come by again; when was the next time they’d both be off shift together? He wanted to take the gamble, that maybe four million years had taken the edge off Bludgeon’s little torture. He wanted…

“Yeah, okay,” Drift said. “See you on the bridge in ten minutes.” Drift deactivated his commlink and sighed; then he rose, reluctantly, to his feet.

Ratchet sat up in the berth. He didn’t want to ask, but Drift read the question on his face. “Rodimus.”

The rising wave of fury took Ratchet’s breath away. It wasn’t right, wasn’t _Autobot,_ but Bludgeon’s curse was alive and well and stoking his spark with thoughts he couldn’t control. In that instant Ratchet hated his commander with blinding, irrational rage. He forced the feelings back down, but for those few seconds, he couldn’t trust himself to speak. In silence, Drift crossed the room, clipped on his hip swords, slung the Great Sword over onto his back. 

And then Drift turned around as the hab suite door opened, looking at Ratchet with a sad little smile, “Thank you.”

Ratchet didn’t dare open his mouth. He waved, instead, and then Drift’s commlink buzzed again and the white mech stalked away as the door of the hab suite slid closed.

Ratchet looked at the rumpled heating tarp and the berth that was still warm on the far side, and all of a sudden he couldn’t bear to be in this room alone. He drew the tarp up over the berth—knowing it would still smell of Drift tonight—and left his room via the door into the medbay, waiting to see what wreckage of a night out on Hedonia he’d find waiting for him there. If he was lucky, there’d be enough to keep him busy.

_Just a little fooling around_ , Ratchet told himself, _it didn’t mean anything_. 

But already it hurt.

The thrum of the star drive increased, causing the floor to vibrate under Ratchet’s feet. Ratchet imagined Hedonia falling into the distance behind him and took in a deep breath, knowing that every minute put distance between his present reality and the events of last night. When he got far enough away, he could think about it rationally. When he got far enough away, it would be painless. It might be nice, even, to have a pleasant little memory to look back on. One thing he’d managed despite what Bludgeon had done to him. _My night of fun on Hedonia._

For now, though, Ratchet was alone in the cold grey light of morning, cursing a day that turned a dream to ash.

*

  
_Lock the door, lock the door_  
 _And it's good to know that you'll drive away_  
 _From this car crash nightmare_  
 _And I'll be there to help you again_  
 _There's no danger_  
 _We're just killing time again_  
 _When they order up new parts_

_I have been good_  
 _I understood_  
 _Like a machine they'll fix you from the start_  
 _I'm in repair_  
 _The life that we share_  
 _I know that I'll be lost in_  
 _But we're always in repair_

\--Our Lady Peace, In Repair


End file.
